I no longer write poetry
Because I was caught satirizing under the influence
And my poetic license was revoked.
This was a year ago, and now I have to be very careful
About forming even the semblance of a metaphor.
The author authorities are very harsh on repeat offenders.
I hope that this reads like an instruction manual
For some large piece of earth-moving equipment
Or perhaps some dry thesis as to how socioeconomic factors
Relate to the Gross National Product.
I am trying my damnedest to keep my iambic feet on the ground
Since trudging is the only mode of transportation I am permitted.
People meet me in the supermarket, and say,
“Didn’t you used to be a poet?”
I merely smile at them, and say that it’s late
And that I have to buy prunes.
They think that I am being profound.
